


The Nocturne

by basilique



Category: Carmilla (Web Series), Carmilla - All Media Types, Carmilla - J. Sheridan Le Fanu
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Dark Magic, Eventual Smut, F/F, Haunting, Journalist Laura, Lesbian Vampires, Seduction, Spanish Carmilla, Top Carmilla, Travel, Vampires, but it will be, it's not explicit yet, latin america, study abroad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 12:50:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10967601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basilique/pseuds/basilique
Summary: Laura Hollis was not looking for trouble.Fresh out of college, with her bachelor’s degree Summa Cum Laude, her dark blond hair pulled back in a high ponytail, a clipboard in her hand, and a pen between her teeth, she was looking for nothing but new worldly knowledge and a promising start to her career as an investigative journalist.She was certainly not looking for any beautiful, surly, tragically cursed Spanish vampires.That's the kind of thing that could get you into trouble.





	The Nocturne

Laura Hollis was not looking for trouble. 

Fresh out of college, with her bachelor’s degree Summa Cum Laude, her dark blond hair pulled back in a high ponytail, a clipboard in her hand, and a pen between her teeth, she was looking for nothing but new worldly knowledge and a promising start to her career as an investigative journalist. 

It was the third day of her three month trip to Guatemala, and she was already feeling antsy, anxious to get out of her host family’s comfortable house and delve into the language, the culture, and the history of the place. She was going to leave this country fluent in Spanish, well-versed in the local culture, and with a deeper understanding of the complexities of post-colonial art, literature, cultural thought, and politics. 

And while doing that, she was going to drink lots of water, take lots of Omega 3s, never get a sunburn, and generally _stay out of trouble_. 

Laura concentrated fiercely on what her tour guide was saying, trying to piece together the meanings in his rapid Spanish. They were touring the mountain town of Zunil, whose nearby volcanic activity left nutrient-rich soils for growing an abundance of vegetables, and whose volcanic hot springs were the sites of prosperous bathhouses. 

Laura jotted down notes on what she understood; they were going to enter a house of Saint Simon. She had read previously about him; the dark saint of the people of the highland pueblos, an amalgamation of a colonial Spanish saint and an earlier Mayan shaman. Behind her in the tour group, several German graduate students translated bites and pieces of the guide’s explanation for each other, and, when they had pieced enough together, explained it in broken English to an older Canadian couple. 

Laura was the first to step into the house of Saint Simon, and pay her three quetzals to a small woman seated at a table by the door. The little house had thin wooden walls, and a few streaks of sunlight penetrated through the planks to illuminate the dark, smoky interior. There were two beams at the center, and against them were leaned several tables and alters, overflowing with flowers, beads, colorful candles, and ornate bowls of what smelled to be cigarette ash. 

Beside her was a little alter to a skeleton god, with a rosary draped around his shoulders and a candle overflowed with dried wax at his feet. He was reaching a skeletal hand forward, though it hung limply down, as though he was reaching for the flickering flame of the candle. 

Laura jotted down a note to herself about the macabre little icon, before looking more closely across the room at the porcelain, or tile, or plaster figure that must be Saint Simon. He was seated in a throne-like chair, wearing a brimmed hat, sunglasses, and an ornate bathrobe. He had a smoking cigar clamped between his teeth, and six or seven bottles of wine at his feet, offered to him in full, no doubt, by some devout villagers. His expression was playful, and somehow predatory, like a fox in a Western folk tale. 

What a strange image to worship. He was a _saint of vices_. It didn’t make sense to Laura why the local people, who loved Jesus and Maria, and valued Christian virtues highly, seemed to pay this trouble-maker such a deep respect. She resolved to do some more research tonight. Perhaps one day when she had learned enough, she would write an article on this dark saint of the Guatemalan highlands, and his significance to this complex, many-layered post-colonial society. 

She approached the figure of the saint and his alter, and scanned her eyes over the offerings on the table behind him; flowers, wine, cigars, even a few figurines of beautiful women. The saint must be known as a womanizer too. 

Laura’s eyes stopped, abruptly, on a small oval picture frame, just the right size to fit in her palm. It looked _old_ , older than the figure of the saint himself. It was made of copper, and endowed with a pretty rim of flourishes that put Laura in mind of old world French of Spanish craftsmanship. 

But the thing that really caught her eye was the tiny portrait in the frame. It was the face and shoulders of a girl. A dark-haired Spanish girl no older than herself, clearly high-born, but with an expression that could only be described as _sulky_. The girl would clearly have rather been anywhere else than seated in that chair having her portrait painted. And there was something so charming about that grumpy irreverence on her face, that Laura found herself holding the portrait cupped in both hands, gazing down at it, and smiling, almost fondly, as though the girl were a dear friend whose face she knew well but had not seen in years. 

She could not seem to tear her eyes off of it, and she lost all interest in the figure of Saint Simon, and in the skeleton god, and in all the other dark icons that stood around the room. 

The other members of her tour group had wandered through the icons, talking in low voices to each other and pointing out the offerings. But they were losing interest now, and wandering toward the door, back out into the bright afternoon light. 

Laura knew she should go with them. But it was so strangely difficult to put the image of the Spanish girl down. It was like a physical force, her desire to keep on holding it…and she had a terrible idea. 

Laura was not a thief. She never even stole any food from the dining halls in college, and that was saying something. But it would be so easy to just slip this little portrait into her backpack. The offerer had clearly forgotten about it anyway; it was dusty, and it had been half-buried under the bloom of a hydrangea. No one would miss it…and she could bring it back anyway. Yes! She would just borrow it, and return it once she had taken some photos of it. That was alright! 

So maybe it was the sinful influence of Saint Simon, or maybe it was the thick smoke in the room, or maybe it was the mesmerizing languidness in the painted girl’s black eyes, or maybe it was the teeny, _tiny_ part of Laura that really _was_ looking for trouble. But whatever the reason, Laura slipped the portrait into the side pocket of her backpack before she stepped back out into the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Will update soon! :)
> 
> I'm on tumblr!  
> basilique.tumblr.com


End file.
